Red White Blue
by ryoku1
Summary: He was suffering from death, destruction and fear, and death, destruction and fear where the solutions he presented to himself. The thought made him laugh, maybe he truly was mad.


Red White Blue

"You will abdicate your throne, and cease to be Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias."

It was not a request, and most certainly not a suggestion. Russia knew it, Nicolas knew it, and Ivan knew it. The Emperor of Russia was to be stripped of his title, and any lingering objections would be drowned out by the crowds blocking the tracks; their screams demanding royal blood. The fury and rage seethed and festered in their nation, but Ivan had not yet been over taken by their bloodlust. There was even a part of the nation that still cared for his soon to be former Tsar, but that small segment of his individual was viciously being stamped out by the pounding of feet and the cries of his people. The Tsar would receive no mercy from his nation; there was nothing to be said in this man's defense.

Nicolas stared at the paper in front of him, transfixed at the notion that he was being forced from the throne. Perhaps the emperor was thinking that the people would beg for him back one day. The clamor outside of the small train made the idea quite amusing.

"I will abdicate in favor of Aleksei, he is the rightful ruler to all of Russia." It took a long time for the words to leave Nicolas's mouth, hesitant and quiet. The statement had attempted to show how strongly Nicolas stood by his son and lineage, but instead came out more uncertain then anything the Tsar had ever said. Which again was absurd, for Nicolas was very good at being a doubtful, hesitant, and gentile ruler; things that never should have arisen in the same setting. A ruler needed confidence, needed to be strong, and Nicolas II was not that ruler.

Silence met the Tsar's statement as everyone in the room, Ivan included, seemed to ponder the chaos that would undoubtedly ensue when a 12 year old child - an incredibly ill 12 year old child – took control of revolutionary Russia. This day was far more humorous then most of Ivan's life had been, perhaps he really was losing his mind.

Despite how amused Ivan was at the statement, Russia was not to be ruled by another spoiled child. Though it had been the nations norm for centuries, the whole idea all of the sudden seemed strange and backwards. How could people be ruled by a child that did not understand their suffering? Had no knowledge of how to feed the peasants, and no idea how to appease and dominate the nobles. It was by force of will that the system was still in place, and just like other nation before him, Russia was staring down the systems critical flaw. The democratic principals that Ivan had shunned since the fall of Napoleon seemed a better choice then this dedication to a family chosen by God to rule. God had somehow made a grave mistake; this could not be the correct path.

"It would be _unfortunate_ if young Aleksei took a tumble from his new throne, don't you think? It is so huge, and he is still so small." Ivan's tone was childish and playful in a cold and murderous fashion that helped to embody the gravity of situation Nicolas found himself in. The small smile that spread across the nation's face never reached his eyes.

The malicious glare that struck out at Ivan was one the nation had never seen before. A threat that Russia recognized as useless now. Perhaps if Nicolas had actually tried to put the fear of God into someone before – like he was attempting now – the soon to be former Tsar might not be in his current predicament. But the threats that glare promised now were nothing more then pipe dreams, similar to the October Manifesto. October had come and passed, and had left Russia the wiser. There would be no fulfillment of punishment today or any other day, it was Russia handing out the punishment now.

--

In the early days, Ivan had hope for his nation, the light of democracy and free rights for every Russian was instilled in his being, and Russia was certainly destined for great things. The work week was shortened, delegates where elected to represent, wages went up; but in some sick twist of fate none of it did any good. Food was scarce, output was down in all areas of work, and Russia was still losing money, weapons, and young men into the Great War as people starved in his cities.

Ivan was thrust into an unwavering descend of despair that little could bring him out of. He pulled into himself, fighting for food and supplies just like any common peasant. It was deplorable, demeaning, and disgusting that he, a proud nation had fallen so low as to only care about his own existence. Ivan wasn't even sure if he still cared about the Baltic brothers, but they where his, so he worked for them too. But if it came down to necessity, if it was either Ivan or them, they would be abandoned to starve.

The fact that Russia had contemplated cutting them off scared the nation; the fact that the idea was fresh in his mind was almost maddening. Here where three nations that he had taken as his own, and he was thinking of allowing them to starve to death in his own home. The thought disgusted Ivan on more levels then he could count.

Some time in August the four of them abandoned Petrograd; his glorious capital filled with pain, sadness, death, and starvation. There was nothing there for them any longer.

They traveled for days, days in which Ivan wondered if the three Baltics would simply die of the cold; a darker part of him wanted it, knew that life would be easier without them. It was on their third day of travel that Latvia collapsed, Lithuania and Estonia rushed to their youngest brothers side, Lithuania pleading with Russia to help them.

But Ivan was busy, and could not force himself to care. The larger nation was in pain, needed to get away from the suffering hurt and death. Ivan would not stop for the smaller nation, thinking to himself that this was destiny. If Latvia died, it wouldn't be his fault.

To his hesitant relief, Latvia didn't fall prey to General Winter's assaults; his older brothers took turns carrying the smallest on their backs, and after a few days Latvia was fine to walk again, though Lithuania again begged Russia for rest.

Russia had never been able to stand Toris's eyes pleading him, and the thought that the oldest of the three might be the next to stumble was a sobering though. As the days continued, Russia started to notice how Lithuania had started paling in comparison to his brothers, started lagging behind as Estonia and Latvia both held their older brother's hand and practically dragged him along.

The darker side of him said that this was all fine, if Lithuania was left there would be one less mouth to feed, and one more corpse to be claimed by the snow, but a more humane side of him screamed in protest. This was wrong, he needed these three, they where his.

So it was three days after Lithuania had started to falter that Ivan found a suitable place to stay. It wasn't much, just a small two room shack in a state of disrepair. Russia was the first to reach the small abode, throwing open the door to find the corps of a woman and child both huddled together. Russia threw them to the snow, perhaps some fortunate animal would thank him.

The small area smelt strongly of death, but Russia had been smelling, feeling and experiencing death for quite some time now, so he hardly even noticed. The Baltics were not stupid enough to complain.

--

On the morning of 25 October 1917 Russia found himself rising from his bed fully clothed and exiting the room that was his own. He passed the main room of the house, where the three Baltic brothers sat huddled together near a small fire, three blankets covering them as they shivered. Ivan barely noticed them as he made his way out of the small shack.

As he exited the house, General Winter swept him into a cold embrace, brutal and bone chilling, but far too familiar to be a misgiving. The old man also knew change was in the air.

Russia continued walking, leaving a small wake of foot prints that the falling snow quickly covered. He wasn't far from the small shack when he chose to stop. It was only at that moment that Ivan noticed the large carving knife in his hand. When exactly he had picked it up the large nation wasn't sure, but the details were not important. Russia was aware of what needed to be done.

He rolled up his right sleeve, the warm fabric gathering at the base of his shoulder. The cold air took hold of the arm, almost as if to inspect the prize presented to it. Russia smiled, the cold was the only encouragement that he was going to get, and despite the pain that came because of the approval, Ivan was very happy to receive it. The slight fear at his actions tried to stop the nation, but this was absolutely necessary.

Without delay Russia raised the knife and brought the blade to lie along the inside of his right arm, the tip of the blade barely gracing the nation's wrist. With one fluid motion Ivan added pressure and speed to the action, slicing open the inside of his right arm spanning from his wrist up to the bicep.

The cut was clean and precise; to say it didn't hurt would be a falsehood.

With its intended purpose finished, Russia discarded the knife in the snow, it was of no more use to him.

The slice had already started to drip and ooze red as Russia held it upwards, admiring his handy work. As the liquid started to run down his arm and reach for the ground, Ivan turned the wound downward, the blood rushing from the open wound to meeting white snow.

The nation stayed like that for a while, simply watching as the blood stained the snow a deep crimson. Transfixed by the display and all it meant, the fear that had plagued him a few minutes ago long gone.

"R-R-R-Russia…"

That small voice was unmistakably Lithuania. Ivan turned to face the smaller nation, but as he turned dizziness overtook him, and the Russian struggled to stay standing, swaying and staggering a little. At this Lithuania rushed to the larger nation's side, trying his best to prop up Ivan, grabbing Russia's right arm in the process.

When warm blood met the other nations touch and started to flow freely down Toris's arm, the Baltic recoiled as if burned. Lithuania's face paled considerably, almost to the shade of the snow, or at least the color the snow normally was when it hadn't been saturated with Russian blood.

At the sudden loss of support Russia found himself stumbling again to stay upright. After a few moments he lost the fight and fell, landing on his back in the wet crimson snow.

"Democracy is dead, Torris. I needed to get out the blue. Its better this way."

It wasn't an explanation, Lithuania didn't needed one. The smaller nation was smart - he would understand - but for some reason, Russia needed to vocalize the fact. Maybe Ivan needed to validate the claim, to prove to himself that Democracy was useless, worthless, and needed to be purged from his system. Ivan wasn't exactly sure, but that could have been the reason.

Inching forward, Lithuania said nothing, and after a moment were the small nation seemed genuinely troubled, Toris reached for Russia's uninjured arm. Lithuania attempted to hoist up the larger country, and after a few vain attempts, Russia approved of the action and helped the smaller.

Ivan allowed Toris to lead him back to the small shack as the large nation fought exhaustion.

"The left arm will be for the white Toris. That will happen soon. I can feel it."

--

The Baltics had left in February. That fact was both bitter and sweet. It was no longer Russia's responsibility that they stay alive, but with them gone, Ivan was all alone to toil and torment in his own pain and misery. Russia swore to himself that once he was whole again, he would go reclaim them. When he was not wracked with illness, starvation and death, the Baltics would be back, and Russia would no longer suffer in silence. But for now maybe it was better they were gone.

Days turned into months without making much difference to the Russian, his days where filled with pain, blood and hunger so he barely even registered that time was passing.

Ivan was falling apart in so many places, torn and almost beaten, he wasn't even sure that he would survive this Civil War. Was all internal strife this horrible? It made Russia want to stamp out all that thought to oppose the status quo; slaughter them and mercilessly purge them from the gene pool. He was suffering from death, destruction and fear, and death, destruction and fear where the solutions he presented to himself. The thought made him laugh, maybe he truly was mad.

Ivan was sure that he hadn't been crazy before this whole thing, maybe not like the other European nations, but definitely not crazy. This war was changing him, ripping away every norm and formality that had been the entirety of his life, and leaving him cold, dirty, and hungry; starved for some sort of vengeance at who was responsible.

So Russia sat in his little shack with bottles and bottles of vodka - both empty and full - littering the floor, cut off from the rest of the world by his own choosing.

It did not evade Russia's attention that the rest of the world wanted to claim his land as their own. He could feel England, France, Japan, and even America trying to stake their claim to what was his birthright, and Ivan hated them for it. A stronger hate then any other hate he had known. Russia wanted them gone with every fiber of his being, and he reveled in the thought of luring some poor cold American, or better yet a French man into his small abode only to slit their throat and steal their supplies.  
His days passed in this fashion, the hate and hurt festering untended.

It was a one day in July that Russia was brought from his drunken stupor. He wasn't sure exactly what day it was but Ivan would find out later, for today would live with the nation forever.

The day passed like any other, slow and cold, but as the day started to reach its end, Ivan found himself sprawled out on the floor of the main room of the shack. The bottles of vodka where no where to be found as history unfolded in Ekaterinburg.

In wake of the even that would take place, Russia found himself singing softly to himself. The voice somehow not his own. In his mind Ivan heard the voices of his people, those of women, children, and men of his proud nation; he gave his voice as their own.

He sang as the shooting began, his eyes closed and a small smile on his face.

"…Боже, Царя храни…."

The bullets sunk deep into Nicolas's body, and he flopped lifelessly to the floor.

"…Сильный, державный…"

Alexandra moved to shield her young son Alexi and daughter Anastasia.

"…Царствуй на славу нам…"

Olga crumpled to the ground, injured but not dead, the wound was not yet fatal.

"…Царствуй на страх врагам…"

Tatiana clung to her older sister for support, her eyes wide in terror and her voice reaching out like that of a banshee.

"…Царь православный…"

Maria fell without any protest; she was dead before she hit the cold stained floor.

"…Боже, Царя храни…"

When the bullets stopped Anastasia's maddening scream filled the small room.

"…Боже, Царя храни…"

Two bullets entered Aleksei's head, and the smallest child was the last to die as his blood flowed freely across the ground.

"….Боже….Царя….храни.…"

With his last verse repeated, Ivan was finished and all was silent as the air clung to the unvoiced song that still persisted playing only in the dark recesses of Ivan's mind.

Russia thought it a fitting end for his Tsar, for Nicolas's death had also killed God. The two had died together, and would both remain in Siberia, where no one would find them. No one would look.

It was a turning point, an event that would forever shape Russia's future, past, and present.

Russia found it difficult to care.

With a small sigh Ivan closed his eyes and let the chill of the small space creep into his bones, his breath and his very being. It was proof that he had survived his former monarchs and even his former God.

Bringing his eyes open again, Ivan turned his gaze to the left, studying the arm that lay there. Lingering there for a moment, he smiled. It was not yet time to expel the white, to bleed out the bad blood like he had done to the blue.

No, not yet. But it wouldn't be long.

--

Authors Note:

On March 2nd 1917 Nicolas II, Tsar of Russia, abdicated his throne in light of the February revolution. He abdicated to his son and brother, and after much debate his brother was chosen to take the throne. His brother wisely declined.

After the abdication a Provisional Government was set in place that preached Democratic principals, but it was to weak and was over thrown by the Bolshevik party on the 24th of October 1917.

Life was very hard before and after the Bolshevik take over, and many Russians closed themselves off from each other. It was a very desolate place where people only relied on themselves and their families.

It was on the 17th of July that the Romanov family was led into a basement in Ekaterinburg and killed. I have not been able to locate much information about how specifically they died, so I have embellished a little for emphasis, but make no mistake, there is no doubt that their deaths where just as brutal.

The White army still persisted in fighting to Red Soviets till early 1923.  
The song that Russia sings is "God Save the Tsar", the national anthem during the time before the abdication.

The lyrics in English are as follows:

God save the noble Tsar,  
Long may he live in power,  
In happiness,  
In peace to reign,  
Dread of his enemies,  
Faith's sure defender,  
God save the Tsar,  
God save the Tsar,  
God save the Tsar

After the Bolsheviks took over Russia completely, they enforced massive change, this included the destruction of all Religious practices, and the changing of the nations flag to one of all red with a yellow sickle and hammer. The old Russian flag, which was a red white and blue flag was torn down.

Thank you for reading, I hoped you enjoyed it. If you would be so kind as to leave some feedback you would make me very happy. Thank you for your time.


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